“Writing Erotica Is Punished More Severely Than Rape”
写小说比强奸判得还重---女性情欲写作该往何处去？
Written by Ziyulin (紫雨林), Edited by Yanmu (岩木) and Zhao Xiaolu (赵小鲁)
【Editor’s Note: When Writing Fiction Is Punished More Severely Than Rape: Fifty Female Authors Arrested Across Provinces, Facing Sentences That Lead to Illness, Unemployment, and an Unbearable Life…Where Should Women’s Writing on Desire Go from Here?
Starting in June 2024, over fifty young Chinese authors—predominantly women—were arrested across provincial lines for publishing “danmei” fiction in Haitang Literature City. Their works, featuring consensual adult-themed narratives, allegedly violated obscenity laws, leading to charges of “producing and distributing obscene materials for profit.” Some received five-year sentences; many struggled to raise restitution for leniency. Their stories underscore a legal gray zone: readers voluntarily paid for these imaginative texts, leaving no identifiable victims. Yet entrapment tactics, rigid regulations, and cross-provincial enforcement exposed them to harsh penalties and criminal records. While critics liken these punishments to being “worse than rape sentences,” advocates note outdated laws and the absence of content-classification systems for adult readers. Fear pervades the community: authors remain silent to avoid further scrutiny.
This crisis highlights urgent questions about free speech, gender equality, and how far society will go in policing women’s creative expressions of desire and beyond.】
This is a crime and punishment story where there are only defendants and no victims.
“Writing fiction is punished more severely than rape”—this online lament captures the gross absurdity of the case.
Starting in June, over fifty “danmei” (耽美) fiction writers were arrested across provincial borders for publishing their works in Haitang Literature City (海棠文学城). Some received prison sentences as long as five years, and others were forced to scrape together funds in hopes of a lighter penalty.
Most of these authors are in their twenties, with women making up the overwhelming majority. Their works are imaginative narratives on sex and love, with readers paying voluntarily to read them—no coercion, no actual harm, no damage to anyone’s interests. Yet they have been charged with the crime of “producing and distributing obscene materials for profit.”
The investigating agency in a different province claims it acted according to law and in strict enforcement, using entrapment tactics to prosecute women authors of fictional stories. “Shuiping Jiyuan (水瓶纪元)” delves into the details of this case, illustrating not just a piece of news about online writers who were arrested but revealing many underlying issues concerning gender equality and creative freedom in our society:
Should adult women’s literary explorations of sexual imagination be straightforwardly labeled “obscene”?
When platforms offering creative space operate across borders without providing adequate legal risk warnings, how can we safeguard authors’ interests in the face of reader demands?
While protecting minors, how do we ensure the freedom of adults to access age-appropriate reading material?
Through painstaking detail, the reporter Ziyulin (紫雨林) captures the predicaments and voices of these women writers. Some, gravely ill, rely on writing as their sole livelihood. Others, on the brink of a stable career in public service, found their futures shattered by the charges. Still others persist in writing “clean” fiction as a last-ditch effort to raise enough money to pay their fines.
Their stories remind us all that whenever we discuss sex education, it is not enough to focus solely on physiological or medical knowledge. We must also envision a more equitable, more inclusive social environment—one in which everyone can safely and freely express and explore their sexuality and desires in the right setting.
—LoveMatters, Luke (李忠尧 Luke)
Note: The term “danmei” (耽美, pronounced dān měi) first originated in late nineteenth-century Japanese literary history as “tanbi” (たんび), referring to aestheticism, a movement seeking pure beauty in literature. In Japanese, it means “indulgence in all that is beautiful.” These days, “danmei literature” has come to describe fiction centered on romantic relationships between men. It developed as a new genre in Japan during the 1970s and 1980s, then entered China in the 1990s, flourishing widely in online literature.
The Silent Disappearance:
How Authors at Haitang Literature City Suddenly Went Offline
When multiple danmei authors on Haitang Literature City (海棠文学城), a platform whose servers are based in Taiwan, ceased updating and vanished without explanation, the news at first spread furtively through online rumors. It wasn’t until the writers and their families stepped forward that the situation came to light: since June, authorities from a certain province in central China have made cross-provincial arrests of more than fifty writers on charges of “producing and distributing obscene materials for profit.” These writers have had to trek back and forth between local law enforcement agencies and the courts, borrowing money wherever they can to pay staggering fines and fight for probation.
On December 17, I learned that a high-profile author known as “Yunjian (云间)” was sentenced to four and a half years in prison after making active restitution. Another author, “Yixie (一蟹),” whose amount in dispute was below 250,000 yuan, received a sentence of one year and five months, with two years’ probation. Some authors who were unable to raise funds for restitution have received longer sentences, such as “Ciqiu (辞奺),” who was handed a five-and-a-half-year term. All authors involved now bear a criminal record.
For months beforehand, speculation ran wild, and the looming threat of punitive measures led authors and their families to keep quiet—warily sidestepping media inquiries.
Over the past few years, China’s domestic online fiction platforms have progressively tightened their content review policies, forcing a mass exodus of danwei authors, who leaped over various “firewalls” to find refuge in places like Haitang Literature City (hereafter “Haitang”). Now, even Haitang—once considered a safe harbor because its servers were supposedly out of mainland jurisdiction—no longer appears secure. Where does one draw the line between obscenity and free speech? And more urgently, where can women’s writing on sexuality find a home?
Account Deletions, Novel Removals, and Lockdowns:
The Beginnings of the Haitang Authors’ Disappearance
Trouble began at Haitang.
On June 20, an author named Xiao Zhu (小竹) was serializing her danmei novel on Haitang. Readers complained they could not top up their accounts and that the “agents” in charge of processing payments were missing in action. At Haitang, these “agents” were effectively Taobao store clerks; readers typically recharged their balances through such online shops or, less commonly, directly via WeChat. That same day, top-tier author “Yunjian (云间)” fell silent; people in the danmei community all knew that she wrote with extraordinary diligence—updating daily, 365 days a year. The unsettling series of events raised Xiao Zhu’s suspicions. A three-year writing veteran, she was fully aware she operated in a legal gray zone.
According to online sources, Haitang Literature City was founded in 2015 under the aegis of Taiwan Longma Culture Publishing House. Its content skews heavily toward danmei and R18 themes (meaning “18-restricted,” intended for adult audiences only). In recent years, authors of danmei in mainland China have repeatedly seen their work subjected to stringent review—on some platforms, “nothing below the neck” is allowed. Haitang’s servers based in Taiwan became a haven for circumventing such censorship, drawing countless danmei writers to “produce grain” (as authors often refer to creating stories) on this platform. Readers, in turn, affectionately call these authors “ta-ta” or “my dear writing auntie.”
Growing alarmed, Xiao Zhu tried to contact other authors for updates. Around midnight, she finally heard that someone had indeed been taken into custody. Allegedly, a certain law enforcement agency in Anhui Province had formed a specialized task force to make cross-provincial arrests, with more arrests on the way.
“I broke out in a cold sweat,” Xiao Zhu recalls. She immediately emailed Haitang’s editors to request the deletion of her account and all her writings. Unable to sleep, she woke in terror every hour, bracing for the sound of a knock at her door or a phone call. “I had no idea if I’d get ‘selected,’ and it was terrifying. I really couldn’t accept the thought of ending up with a criminal record because of something like this.”
At first, the editors refused to remove her work, citing damage to readers’ rights: “Readers will be furious.” Under normal circumstances, even after an author deletes her account, the novel remains accessible for three more years so that readers who have already paid can continue reading. Readers had indeed become upset, later grumbling online: “I want a refund! I feel like a clown.”
But the specter of prison compelled Xiao Zhu to push back with an offer of financial sacrifice: “I still have a balance of tens of thousands of yuan in my account—just keep it, but hurry and let me go!” Only then did the editors acquiesce.
In the weeks that followed, Xiao Zhu privately reached out to fellow authors, urging them to “run” while they still could. Some believed her and promptly followed suit, emailing Haitang to delete their accounts and works. On June 21, Haitang shut down and locked its content, publicly citing “five days of platform maintenance.” The arrests, however, were kept under wraps, and everything appeared calm to the outside world.
At first, most readers assumed this was simply routine maintenance. Only on June 26, when Haitang extended its downtime, did a handful of readers begin to suspect something unusual. One commenter on Douban wrote, “Yunjian might have been arrested because of the Haitang fiasco.”
Chen Chen (晨晨), a danmei enthusiast of ten years who professes to be a “catholic omnivore” (devouring any subgenre), learned from rumors on Weibo that the so-called “agents” for Haitang had likely been “taken in by the authorities” and that authors’ entire payment histories might now be exposed. “Anyone who earned over ten thousand yuan had better run,” one person warned.
Because of the initial lack of information, speculation flourished. Some insisted that Haitang couldn’t possibly get busted unless an author had engaged in “private printing” (illegally printing and selling physical copies in mainland China). Others speculated the arrests were for tax evasion or money laundering or even that Haitang was under scrutiny for politically sensitive content.
On June 20, a certain agency in central China began arresting more than a dozen authors suspected of “producing and distributing obscene materials for profit,” including Yunjian, Ciqiu, Yixie, and Momo, among others. Around the same time, Haitang’s two major domestic payment agents—Wang Moumou and Wen Mou—were also taken into custody. A search of the Anhui Province Jing County People’s Court website revealed their names in trial announcements, and they were charged with “assisting cybercrime.”
“They were arrested on the same day. It’s obvious the authorities already had all of the authors’ information, so they must have been tracking them for some time,” Chen Chen speculates. On June 29, Haitang briefly resumed operations, but all content remained locked and inaccessible. Some authors emailed the platform to confirm the arrests, yet the editors offered no updates. Consequently, some authors, clinging to hope, reactivated their novels and continued posting.
Among them was the writer “Fayu (筏喻),” who soon climbed the rankings thanks to reduced competition. According to Xiao Zhu, “A lot of authors had fled, so anyone who kept writing saw a surge in traffic and revenue.”
The second wave of arrests began in late July. Investigators quickly focused on Fayu, who they alleged was “brazenly offending again.” They arrested her at home, while other low-earning authors received only phone summonses.
Upon being released on bail from a local outpost of the investigating agency, Fayu was consumed with regret. She posted on Weibo, warning fellow authors: “I was so confident, and look where that got me—handcuffs and crushing debt… Don’t repeat my mistake! Delete your accounts!” Only then did the Haitang scandal receive broader attention. Previously, authors feared that alerting others might be construed as “tipping off suspects” by the authorities.
Another author, “A Ruo (啊若),” wrote Can a Livestream Save the Adult Goods Store? (《直播也能挽救用品店吗？》) and Bullied by My Psychotic Husband When I Tried to Get a Divorce (《想离婚却被疯批老公欺负了》), faced complications with account closure. Although she emailed Haitang to request deletion, the platform allegedly reactivated her account and put her titles on the bestseller list. “I can’t tell if it was inadvertent or intentional,” Chen Chen remarks.
“I’m in so much pain… Just a tiny step more and I might have escaped being summoned and arrested,” wrote A Ruo, a recent college graduate who had just secured a coveted civil-service position—a “bright future for someone from such precarious circumstances,” she lamented on Weibo.
Outraged readers branded Haitang as “heartless” or “criminal,” denouncing its alleged willingness to keep the authors’ works active for revenue. Xiao Zhu tried to make sense of this, guessing that the platform had hoped to retain enough content to maintain profitability. Repeated attempts to contact Haitang through email went unanswered.
The precarious existence of danwei authors in mainland China was summed up memorably by one commentator: “Operating in this gray area is like a street peddler being chased by city inspectors, clutching your produce while you flee. That chase has gone on for six years. Sometimes you think the world works this way; sometimes you wonder if a sudden gust of wind will slap the ‘Wanted’ poster on your face.”
Self-Defense and Fundraising:
Facing Punitive Fines and Prison Terms
To date, some fifty authors have been arrested. By mid-December, sentences began trickling out. Because authors on Haitang do not directly price their novels—nor do they sell them themselves but rather “work” for Haitang—most have been treated as accomplices, resulting in somewhat lesser penalties. Generally, anyone with under 250,000 yuan in “involved proceeds” can secure probation. For instance, Yixie received a one-year-and-five-month sentence with two years’ probation.
Yunjian recognized as a major author, was sentenced to four and a half years despite making substantial restitution. Others unable to raise enough funds to return “illicit earnings” have been handed longer sentences: Ciqiu was given five and a half years. All defendants now carry a criminal record.
Before sentencing, nearly all of the authors strove to minimize their punishment by returning what officials deemed “illegal proceeds”—essentially, their cumulative royalties from Haitang.
In 2010, China’s Supreme People’s Court and Supreme People’s Procuratorate issued an interpretation specifying that anyone who profits from creating and distributing obscene materials must pay a fine based on sums confiscated—typically between one and five times the illegal proceeds. “If an author made 130,000 yuan in total, the minimum fine could be double that, or 260,000 yuan, plus the lawyer fees and travel to Anhui to appear in court… The numbers are astronomical,” Chen Chen explains. “They’re just a group of twenty-something women who are already financially strapped—they’re not printing money out of thin air.”
Some authors who are out on bail have continued to write to raise fines and sign new contracts with platforms like Jinjiang Literature City to produce non-erotic content that will pass official inspection. Still, the income is negligible. Since August, around a dozen authors have pleaded for donations on Weibo. To avoid being accused of fraud, they often share evidence of their arrests or bail documents, medical reports, and images of their humble living conditions.
Online records show that “Yunjian,” known for her prodigious output—millions of words across nearly a decade—received the nickname “the tireless writing machine.” Devoted exclusively to her craft, she had no children, just four pet dogs. For months, she and her family scrambled to repay “illegal earnings” and fines. At long last, they cleared their debts, in large part thanks to a groundswell of reader support.
“Yunjian” is the author of Brotherly Devotion (《兄友弟恭》), Divorce Application (《离婚申请》), and other popular danmei works. Divorce Application, which chronicles a pair of lovers whose broken relationship is rekindled in the face of adversity, was so well-loved that in 2021, it was licensed for a webcomic adaptation. But fame came with extra scrutiny, and among all Haitang authors, she received a harsher sentence.
Not everyone is that fortunate. Xiao Zhu, who managed to “escape,” lent out her savings to those arrested: “It’s all ‘dirty money’ anyway. Might as well use it to help. They really don’t deserve this punishment.” Still, she suspects her contribution alone can’t fill the gap.
Momo’s family is in no position to help. She confided in a Weibo post that her parents left her in childhood to be raised by her grandmother; later, she was discovered to have a tumor, albeit a benign one, after being arrested. Hoping to raise legal fees, she reached out to her father when he was in a decent mood, only to be told, “You might as well die in there.”
Equally desperate is Zhang Zui Chi Rou (张嘴吃肉). She worked entirely on her own, with no social media presence or group chats that might have alerted her in advance. After major gastric surgery, she couldn’t perform physical labor, and her bipolar disorder left her few options but to make a living through writing. Her parents, a cleaning lady and a night-shift security guard, earn a meager wage. The family keeps chickens in a cramped yard that reeks of waste. Having grown up in such dire poverty, Zhang says she felt too ashamed to invite friends home.
“I know my writing isn’t great, so I compensate with sheer diligence,” she explains. “But that diligence now yields nothing but regret.” In her darkest moments, she contemplated suicide, only to be stopped by her mother. One observer commented, “The poorer you are, the harder you struggle; the harder you struggle, the more unlucky you become. Negative feedback, vicious cycle.”
According to the Jing County People’s Court in Anhui Province, at least ten authors have come to trial since November, with one to two hearings per week. Facing such procedures, these authors must travel repeatedly from their home provinces—Chongqing, Zhejiang, Fujian, and Yunnan—to appear in Anhui.
How could a single provincial law enforcement agency break the usual principle of local jurisdiction to arrest so many authors nationwide? Attorney Huang Simin (黄思敏) explains: “In the Internet age, criminal conduct can happen anywhere, which sometimes justifies cross-regional enforcement. But there are also cases of ‘profit-driven enforcement’—though that’s more common in economic crimes.”
A source close to the situation has provided me with the official documents, which set off heated discussions in danmei circles. One detail involves a whistleblower named Wang Yijun (汪毅骏), who discovered Haitang through an advertisement link and found it teeming with erotic novels. The tip led him to report it to the authorities. Coincidentally, a local police staffer in Jing County, also named Wang Yijun, appears in other public records. At present, we lack sufficient evidence to confirm if it’s the same person or if there was an instance of entrapment.
Still, Huang Simin notes that in criminal investigations, authorities often pose as readers or consumers to gather evidence—tactics widely seen as “government sting operations.”
Chen Tong (陈桐), a fan who has read danmei for more than a decade, does not believe the authors have done anything wrong. She has donated around three thousand yuan to help, even lending one writer thirty thousand. Critics scoff at donors for “being gullible,” comparing them to “elderly folks duped into buying useless health supplements.” In jest, Chen Tong and fellow supporters started a Douban group, ironically named “Health Supplement Enthusiasts,” dedicated to updates on Haitang’s plight.
“Spending money on ‘health supplements’ is fine,” Chen Tong says, “because I’m putting my money where my ideals are. I did this in the past, too—co-sponsoring a female high-school student with some online friends, a hundred yuan a month for two years so she could finish school. We want to invest in the future.”
Internal Frictions and External Doubts:
Why Most Authors Choose Silence
While Haitang’s readers have rallied in sympathy, they also struggle with skepticism. Divisions have erupted even among the authors themselves.
Early on, Yixie, one of the first to be arrested, cautioned some fellow authors via private messages. This backfired when screenshots of the conversation leaked, prompting accusations that she was profiteering through self-publishing and “dragging everyone else into this.” Because so little official information circulated, authors who had not yet been targeted questioned whether Yixie’s story held up.
In Xiao Zhu’s view, “Haitang has been around since 2015 with zero trouble—so for it to suddenly blow up without warning, many just couldn’t believe it. In addition to that, there were financial stakes, and people naturally didn’t want to admit the ship might be sinking.”
Simultaneously, ill in the hospital and besieged by online vitriol, Yixie reported her main harasser, a fellow author named Tuyan (屠厌), to the police. Some believe she merely wanted to signal that they should cease the harassment. Authorities apparently took no action against Tuyan.
Further controversy arose from a “long Weibo post” by an author named “Fanqie (番茄).” She described growing up in a poor, single-parent home with no indoor bathroom—just a ramshackle outdoor stall propped up by wooden planks. She confessed her depression in her final year of high school. When writing began to pay off, she saw a glimmer of hope: she took out a loan to buy a small apartment for herself and her mother. But once she was arrested, “I couldn’t tell if it was day or night in that detention room. My whole body ached. Changing positions didn’t help.”
The post went viral, garnering nearly twenty thousand shares. Countless readers, moved to tears, sent her donations. But as soon as detractors asked for proof, she deleted everything. Some donors felt scammed, demanding refunds and forming a “victims’ group” with two hundred members, urging the authorities to file fraud charges. The authorities ultimately declined, warning them not to push her any further.
Xiao Zhu later discovered that Fanqie was in a fragile mental state—hardly capable of calmly handling the onslaught of online criticism. Yet the initial empathy turned into vitriol. Even subsequent authors who sought help on Weibo sometimes found themselves tarred with the same “fraud” brush.
A week into her crowdfunding effort, even Yunjian’s sister—who had posted on her behalf—found her Weibo account temporarily banned, probably because of mass reporting.
Facing these cascading disputes, other authors rapidly changed their online handles to things like “I’m Keeping My Head Down” or “I Just Want to Live.” When I attempted to reach out to twelve implicated authors in late October, all declined to respond. Through Xiao Zhu, they explained that they had seen my messages but were simply too worried about stirring new controversy or being accused of political or feminist activism, especially since they were still awaiting court decisions. The risk was too great, and “too many people are trying to ride the wave.”
That sense of paranoia has spread throughout the community. Compared with publicly appealing for help, offering heartfelt self-disclosure, or stepping into the media spotlight, many have chosen to vanish. “Just coming forward for donations is probably the bravest thing they’ll do,” Chen Chen says. “They really are terrified.”
One sees repeated comments under their crowdfunding posts, urging, “Don’t escalate the discussion”—as if raising broader issues might cause more harm. “It feels like discussing anything has become a luxury,” Chen Chen sighs. “You end up compressing your own space for survival, staying more obedient, more silent than before… It’s worse now than it was in 2018.”
When Danmei Writers Face Pornography Charges:
“Writing Erotica Is Punished More Severely Than Rape”
Back in 2018, a danmei author known as “Tian Yi (天一)” was sentenced by an Anhui court to ten years and six months for producing obscene materials for profit, sparking tremendous outcry on the Chinese internet. Many commenters repeated the refrain that “writing erotica gets a harsher penalty than actual rape.”
Under Article 363 of China’s Criminal Law, anyone who produces, reproduces, publishes, sells, or disseminates obscene materials for profit faces imprisonment of up to three years or criminal detention, plus fines. Where circumstances are serious, imprisonment ranges from three to ten years, plus fines. In extremely serious circumstances, the sentence can exceed ten years or even be life imprisonment.
In 2004, the Supreme People’s Court issued guidelines identifying thresholds for what constitutes “serious” or “particularly serious” wrongdoing in cases of obscene electronic content. A production or distribution scale of 200 copies—or 10,000 clicks—or illicit gains over 10,000 yuan could be considered “serious.” Five times that threshold would be “especially serious.”
In Tian Yi’s case, she produced 7,000 physical copies and earned 150,000 yuan, which prosecutors deemed extraordinarily severe under existing standards. The question, however, is whether the standards set two decades ago still make sense.
In 2019, The Beijing News ran an article entitled “The Crime and Punishment in the ‘Tian Yi’ Danmei Case,” quoting multiple legal scholars who argued that the existing thresholds are out of date and ought to be revised so that the penalty scale better aligns with modern realities. Ji Ying (冀莹), an associate professor at the University of International Business and Economics, suggested that outdated legal definitions risk undermining public trust in the courts, urging swift reform. Luo Xiang (罗翔), a professor at China University of Political Science and Law, similarly noted that excessively heavy sentencing for non-violent acts clashes with public sentiment and recommended “exceptional mitigation” in cases lacking clear social harm.
But how do we measure “social harm” when the alleged “victims” are the very readers who willingly paid to read such content? As Chen Chen puts it, “It’s not that their crimes are ‘not so bad.’ It’s that I don’t think it’s a crime at all.” She wonders: “Do legal provisions or prosecutors speak on our behalf as readers? A crime with no real victim—how do we explain such an accusation?”
In On the Rationale and Standards of Punishment for Obscene Materials, Professor Luo Xiang remarks that Chinese criminal legislation must consider moralism, paternalism, and liberalism in tandem. Of these, moralism has the oldest pedigree. Obscene materials, according to this logic, degrade individuals and corrode social ethics, leading to communal collapse. Yet many find such reasoning outdated.
Attorney Huang Simin points out that under Chinese law, obscene materials are considered an infringement on state regulatory authority over cultural publications and on public moral standards. Li Yinhe (李银河), a prominent sociologist and sexologist, once wrote in a 2012 blog post in defense of danmei authors, calling the legal prohibition on obscenity “a living dinosaur,” more fit for Europe’s Middle Ages or China’s Cultural Revolution. Because obscene materials involve the imagination rather than tangible acts, Li argued, they deserve constitutional protection under the freedoms of speech and publication.
Still, Huang Simin acknowledges that the law retains some value, especially for handling crimes involving sexual violence on film: “In places like Taiwan, Hong Kong, or Japan, laws addressing sexual violence, stalking, and voyeurism are often distinct. In mainland China, we lack such specialized laws, so these crimes get shoehorned under ‘obscene materials for profit.’”
What troubles Xiao Zhu is that the same legal clause used to regulate real acts of sexual exploitation is being employed to punish imaginary works by female authors for a consenting adult audience. “Nobody was actually harmed here—it’s fiction for women, written by women, and they’re using the same law that handles hidden-camera crimes,” she says.
Nor is she alone in stressing the need for age-based content classification. A post by the WeChat account @NJU核真录 notes how Hong Kong, Macau, and Taiwan have devised separate regulations for adult vs. adolescent consumers of explicit materials. In contrast, mainland China has yet to set forth a comparable system, leaving adult readers with diminished space for free exploration.
Epilogue:
Where Can Women’s Writing on Sexual Desire Find a Home?
Authors on Haitang jokingly call themselves a “victims’ alliance.” “I thought I was numb to everything by now,” Yixie wrote on Weibo, “but one kind comment from a reader moved me to tears. Writing has ruined my life.” Yet even while tangled in legal battles, some keep writing—striving to give their stories a satisfying conclusion.
Text forges a bond between authors and readers, bringing them into a shared emotional realm. Chen Chen recalls a friend handing her a danmei novel in eighth grade: “It was about a crossdressing male lead. The other protagonist doesn’t realize his lover is a man until they hit the sheets. I was shocked—he was shocked, too.” Growing up with little access to sex education, she only then learned that “homosexuality” was real. “Looking back, danmei was my introduction to the world. I started reading about different communities, different social issues, thanks to those stories.”
Danmei fiction, she says, also provides a “safe zone” for sexual exploration: “It lets women immerse themselves in erotic fantasy without worrying about exploitation or coercion. Whatever your preferences, you can find a story to suit you on Haitang, free from moral judgment.”
For all its alleged flaws and a business model that demanded a fifty-fifty split of subscription and donation income, Haitang gave authors carte blanche to write whatever they pleased. There were no content filters, restrictions on plot directions, or updated schedules. It felt liberating. Now, that refuge has been lost.
“May we—and the other authors in the same boat—be reborn like phoenixes, may our futures be full of good fortune, and may our beloved readers stay happy and safe,” wrote Qingjue (轻觉) in one final post, dissolving her fan group shortly afterward.
(In this article, all authors and readers involved in the Haitang incident are identified by pen names or pseudonyms.)
References
Luo Xiang, “On the Rationale and Standards of Punishment for Obscene Materials: Liberating Ourselves from the Monistic Tyranny of Legal Interests,” Journal of Zhejiang Gongshang University, 2021.
Du Wenwen, “The Crime and Punishment in the ‘Tian Yi’ Danmei Case,” The Beijing News, 2019.
Li Yinhe, “A Blog Post in Defense of Danmei Website Authors,” Sina Blog, 2012.
Original article by Shuiping Jiyuan (水瓶纪元), reposted by permission of LoveMattersPRO.
This article comes from Shuiping Jiyuan (水瓶纪元), written by Ziyulin (紫雨林), Edited by Yanmu (岩木) and Zhao Xiaolu (赵小鲁)
LoveMattersPRO is a “safe house” for frank discussions about sex and love, providing the public with mainstream, factual information. Official website: https://matters.love
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This translation is an independent yet well-intentioned effort by the China Thought Express editorial team to bridge ideas between the Chinese and English-speaking worlds. The original text is available here:
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可以。我们共同推动和践行言论和出版自由。有好文章我们也愿意第一时间让英文读者读到。
您好，非常感谢您为这篇文章做英文翻译，让它被更多人知晓，请问我们可以将英文版本发布到水瓶的平台吗？